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° THE SEA FOGS 

31 IE 

By 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

with an Introduction by 

Thomas Rutherford Bacon 

The Photogravure 

Frontispiece after a Painting 

by 

Albertine Randall Wheelan 



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Paul Elder and Company 
San Francisco and New York 

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Copyright) 1 907 
£y Paul Elder and Company 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Gooies Received 

OCT 10 i907 

Cooyr/g-ht Entry 

Oct/6, "toy 

CLASS4 XXc No. 

' CORK A. 



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Robert Louis Stevenson first came 
to California in l8jQ for the 
purpose of getting married. The 
things that delayed his marriage 
are sufficiently set forth in his 
"Letters" (edited by Sidney Col- 
vin) and in his "Life" (written 
by Graham Balfour). It is here 
necessary to refer only to the last 
of the obstacles , the breaking down 
of his health. It is in connection 
with the evil thing that came to 
him at this time that he first 
makes mention of "the sea fogs" 
that beset a large part of the 
California coast. He speaks of 



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them as poisonous ; and poisonous 
they are to any one who is ajfliSied 
with pulmonary weakness, but 
bracing and glorious to others. 
They give the charm of climate to 
dwellers around the great bay. 
How he took this first very serious 
attack of the terrible malady is 
indicated in the letter to Edmund 
Gosse, dated April i6> 1880. 
His attitude toward death is 
shown here, and is further shown 
in his little paper JEs Triplex, in 
which he successfully vindicates 
his generation from the charge 
of cowardice in the face of death. 



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Stevenson's two distinguishing 
characteristics were his courage 
and his determination to be happy 
as the right way of making other 
people happy. His courage, far 
more than change of scene and 
climate y gave him fourteen more 
years in which to contribute to 
the sweetness and light of the 
world. These years were made 
fruitful to others by his determined 
happiness y a happiness in which 
the main fattor, outside of his 
own determination , came from the 
companionship which his marriage 
brought to him. The great prin- 
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ciples by which he lived influenced 
those who did not know him per- 
sonally, through his gift of writ- 
ing. He always maintained that 
it was not a gift but an achieve- 
ment, and that any one could write 
as well as he by taking as much 
pains. We may well doubt the 
soundness of this theory, but we 
cannot doubt the spiritual attitude 
from which it came. It came 
from no mock humility, but from 
a feeling that nothing was credita- 
ble to him except what he did. 
lie asked no credit for the talents 
committed to his charge. He asked 



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credit only for the use he made 
of the talents. 

Stevenson was married May jg, 
1880. His health, which had 
delayed the marriage, determined 
the character of the honeymoon. 
He must get away from the coast 
and its fogs. His honeymoon ex- 
periences are recorded in one of 
the most delightful of his minor 
writings, "The Silverado Squat- 
ters." He went, with his wife, 
his stepson and a dog, to squat 
on the eastern shoulder of Mount 
Saint Helena, a noble mountain 
which closes and dominates the 

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Napa Valley, a wonderful and 
fertile valley, running northward 
from the bay of San Francisco. 
Silverado was a deserted mining- 
camp. Stevenson has intimated 
that there are more ruined cities 
in California than in the land of 
Bashan, and in one of these he 
took up his residence for about 
two months, "camping" in the 
deserted quarters of the extinSl 
mining company. Had he gone a 
little beyond the toll-house, just 
over the shoulder of the mountain, 
he would probably never have seen 
the glory of "the sea fogs." It 
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would have been better for his 
health but worse for TLnglish 
literature. 

My first knowledge of that glory 
came to me twenty years ago. I 
had come to California to care for 
one dearly beloved by me, who was 
fighting the same fight that Ste- 
venson fought, and against the 
same enemy, and who was fighting 
it just as bravely. I took him to 
the summit of the Santa Cruz 
Mountains in the hope that we 
might escape the fogs. As I 
watched on the porch of the little 
cottage where he lay, I saw night 
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after night what I believe to be 
the most beautiful of all natural 
phenomena, the sea fog of the 
Pacific, seen from above. Under 
the full moon, or under the early 
sun which slowly withers it away, 
the great silver sea with its dark 
islands of redwood seemed to me 
the most wonderful of things. 
With my wonder and delight, 
perhaps making them more poig- 
nant, was the fear lest the glory 
should mount too high, and lay its 
attractive hand on my beloved. 
The fog has been dear to me ever 
since. I have often grumbled at 
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it when I was in it or under it> 
but when I have seen it from 
above, that first thrill of won- 
der and delight has come back 
to me — always. Whether on the 
Berkeley hills I see its irresistible 
columns moving through the Gol- 
den Gate across the bay to take 
possession of the land 9 or whether 
I stand on the height of Tamal- 
pais and look at the white , tangled 
flood below, — 

** My heart leaps up when I behold." 

It remains to me — 

" A vision , a delight and a desire " 

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When the beauty of the fog first 
got hold of me, 1 wondered whether 
any one had given literary expres- 
sion to its supreme charm. I 
searched the works of some of 
the better-known California poets , 
not quite without result. I was 
familiar with what seem to me 
the best of the serious verses of 
BretHarte, the lines on San Fran- 
cisco, — wherein the city is pic- 
tured as a penitent Magdalen, 
cowled in the grey of the Fran- 
ciscans, — the soft pale grey of 
the sea fog. The literary value 
of the figure is hardly injured by 
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the cold faff that the penitence 
of this particular Magdalen has 
never been of an enduring quality. 
It is to be noted that what Harte 
speaks of is not the beauty of the 
fog j but its sobriety and dignity. 
Silly with his susceptibility to the 
infinite variety of nature and with 
the spark of the divine fire which 
burned in him, refers often to 
some of the effeBs of the fog, 
such as the wonderful sunset 
colors on the Berkeley hills in 
summer. But I find only one 
dire El allusion to the beauty of the 
fog itself:— 

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*" There lies a little city in the hills ; 

White are its roofs, dim is each dwelling s 

door. 
And peace with perfect rest its bosom fills. 

"There the pure mist, the pity of the sea. 
Comes as a white, soft hand, and reaches 

o'er 
And touches its still face most tenderly' 9 

In 1887 I had not read " The 
Silverado Squatters." Part of it 
had been published in Scribner's 
Magazine, It was only in the 
following year that I got hold of 

*This exquisite little poem is unaccountably omitted from 
the Household (and persumably complete) Edition of 
SUPs poems issued by Houghton , Mifflin & Co., igo6. 
It is found in the little volume, " Poems, 9 * by Edward 
Rowland Sill, published by the same firm at an earlier 
date. Mountain View Cemetery is no longer a ' * little city. * * 



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the book and found an almost ade- 
quate expression of my own feel- 
ing about the sea fogs. Stevenson 
did not know all their beauty, for 
he was not here long enough, but 
he could tell what he saw. In 
other words, he had a gift which 
is denied to most of us. 
Silverado is now a quite impossi- 
ble place for squatting. When I 
first tried to enter, I found it so 
given over to poison-oak and rat- 
tlesnakes that I did not care to 
pursue my investigations very far. 
I did not know at that time that 
I was quite immune from the poi- 

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son of the oak and that the Cali- 
fornia rattlesnake was quite so 
friendly and harmless an animal 
as "John Muir has since assured 
us that he is. The last time that 
I passed Silverado , it was acces- 
sible only by the aid of a gang of 
wood-choppers. 

Curiously , the last great fog effeB 
that I have seen was almost the 
same which Stevenson has de- 
scribed. Last summer we had 
been staying for a month with our 
friends who have a summer home 
about three miles beyond Steven- 
son's "toll-house." It is, I believe, 



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the most beautiful country-seat on 
this round earth, and its free and 
gentle hospitality cannot be sur- 
passed. We left this delightful 
place of sojourning between three 
and four d clock in the morning to 
catch the early train from Calis- 
toga. Our steep climb up to the 
toll-house was under the broad 
smile of the moon, which gradually 
gave way to the brilliant dawn. 
When we passed the toll-house, 
the whole Napa Valley should 
have been revealed to us, but it 
was not. The fog had surged 
through it and had hidden it. 
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What we saw was better than 
the beautiful Napa Valley. I 
should like to tell what we saw, 
but I cannot, — "For what can 
the man do who cometh after the 
king?" 



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A change in the colour of the 
light usually called me in the 
morning. By a certain hour, 
the long, vertical chinks in 
our western gable, where the 
boards had shrunk and sepa- 
rated, flashed suddenly into my 
eyes as stripes of dazzling blue, 
at once so dark and splendid 
that I used to marvel how the 
qualities could be combined. 
At an earlier hour, the heavens 
in that quarter were still quietly 
coloured, but the shoulder of 
the mountain which shuts in 
the canyon already glowed with 



° THE SEA FOGS ° 



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sunlight in a wonderful com- 
pound of gold and rose and 
green ; and this too would kin- 
dle, although more mildly and 
with rainbow tints, the fissures 
of our crazy gable. If I were 
sleeping heavily, it was the bold 
blue that struck me awake; if 
more lightly, then I would 
come to myself in that earlier 
and fairier light. 
One Sunday morning, about 
five, the first brightness called 
me. I rose and turned to the 
east, not for my devotions, but 
for air. The night had been 
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very still. The little private 
gale that blew every evening 
in our canyon, for ten minutes 
or perhaps a quarter of an hour, 
had swiftly blown itself out; 
in the hours that followed, not 
a sigh of wind had shaken the 
treetops; and our barrack, for 
all its breaches, was less fresh 
that morning than of wont. But 
I had no sooner reached the 
window than I forgot all else 
in the sight that met my eyes, 
and I made but two bounds 
into my clothes, and down the 
crazy plank to the platform, 
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The sun was still concealed 
below the opposite hilltops, 
though it was shining already, 
not twenty feet above my 
head, on our own mountain 
slope. But the scene, beyond a 
few near features, was entirely 
changed. Napa Valley was 
gone; gone were all the lower 
slopes and woody foothills of 
the range; and in their place, 
not a thousand feet below me, 
rolled a great level ocean. It 
was as though I had gone to 
bed the night before, safe in a 
nook of inland mountains, and 

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had awakened in a bay upon 
the coast. I had seen these in- 
undations from below; at Cal- 
istoga I had risen and gone 
abroad in the early morning, 
coughing and sneezing, under 
fathoms on fathoms of gray sea 
vapour, like a cloudy sky — 
a dull sight for the artist, and 
a painful experience for the in- 
valid. But to sit aloft one's self 
in the pure air and under the 
unclouded dome of heaven, and 
thus look down on the sub- 
mergence of the valley, was 
strangely different and even de- 



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lightful to the eyes. Far away 
were hilltops like little islands. 
Nearer, a smoky surf beat about 
the foot of precipices and 
poured into all the coves of 
these rough mountains. The 
colour of that fog ocean was a 
thing never to be forgotten. 
For an instant, among the Heb- 
rides and just about sundown, 
I have seen something like it 
on the sea itself. But the white 
was not so opaline; nor was 
there, what surprisingly in- 
creased the effed:, that breath- 
less, crystal stillness over all. 
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Even in its gentlest moods the 
salt sea travails, moaning among 
the weeds or lisping on the 
sand; but that vast fog ocean 
lay in a trance of silence, nor 
did the sweet air of the morn- 
ing tremble with a sound. 
As I continued to sit upon the 
dump, I began to observe that 
this sea was not so level as at 
first sight it appeared to be. 
Away in the extreme south, a 
little hill of fog arose against 
the sky above the general sur- 
face, and as it had already 
caught the sun, it shone on the 
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horizon like the topsails of 
some giant ship. There were 
huge waves, stationary, as it 
seemed, like waves in a frozen 
sea ; and yet, as I looked again, 
I was not sure but they were 
moving after all, with a slow 
and august advance. And while 
I was yet doubting, a promon- 
tory of the hills some four or 
five miles away, conspicuous 
by a bouquet of tall pines, was 
in a single instant overtaken 
and swallowed up. It reap- 
peared in a little, with its pines, 
but this time as an islet, and 

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only to be swallowed up once 
more and then for good. This 
set me looking nearer, and I 
saw that in every cove along 
the line of mountains the fog 
was being piled in higher and 
higher, as though by some wind 
that was inaudible to me. I 
could trace its progress, one 
pine tree first growing hazy 
and then disappearing after 
another; although sometimes 
there was none of this forerun- 
ning haze, but the whole 
opaque white ocean gave a start 
and swallowed a piece ofmoun- 
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tain at a gulp. It was to flee 
these poisonous fogs that I had 
left the seaboard, and climbed 
so high among the mountains. 
And now, behold, here came 
the fog to besiege me in my 
chosen altitudes, and yet came 
so beautifully that my first 
thought was of welcome. 
The sun had now gotten much 
higher, and through all the 
gaps of the hills it cast long 
bars of gold across that white 
ocean. An eagle, or some other 
very great bird of the moun- 
tain, came wheeling over the 
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nearer pinetops, and hung, 
poised and something sideways, 
as if to look abroad on that un- 
wonted desolation, spying, per- 
haps with terror, for the eyries 
of her comrades. Then, with 
a long cry, she disappeared 
again toward Lake County and 
the clearer air. At length it 
seemed to me as if the flood 
were beginning to subside. 
The old landmarks, by whose 
disappearance I had measured 
its advance, here a crag, there 
a brave pine tree, now began, 
in the inverse order, to make 

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their reappearance into day- 
light. I judged all danger of 
the fog was over. This was 
not Noah's flood ; it was but a 
morning spring, and would now 
drift out seaward whence it 
came. So, mightily relieved, 
and a good deal exhilarated by 
the sight, I went into the house 
to light the fire. 
I suppose it was nearly seven 
when I once more mounted the 
platform to look abroad. The 
fog ocean had swelled up enor- 
mously since last I saw it ; and 
a few hundred feet below me, 



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in the deep gap where the 
Toll House stands and the 
road runs through into Lake 
County, it had already topped 
the slope, and was pouring over 
and down the other side like 
driving smoke. The wind had 
climbed along with it; and 
though I was still in calm air, 
I could see the trees tossing 
below me, and their long, stri- 
dent sighing mounted to me 
where I stood. 

Half an hour later, the fog 
had surmounted all the ridge 
on the opposite side of the gap, 

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though a shoulder of the moun- 
tain still warded it out of our 
canyon. Napa Valley and its 
bounding hills were now utterly 
blotted out. The fog, sunny 
white in the sunshine, was pour- 
ing over into Lake County in 
a huge, ragged cataract, tossing 
treetops appearing and disap- 
pearing in the spray. The air 
struck with a little chill, and set 
me coughing. It smelt strong 
of the fog, like the smell of 
a washing-house, but with a 
shrewd tang of the sea-salt. 
Had it not been for two 
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things — the sheltering spur 
which answered as a dyke, and 
the great valley on the other 
side which rapidly engulfed 
whatever mounted — our own 
little platform in the canyon 
must have been already buried 
a hundred feet in salt and poi- 
sonous air. As it was, the in- 
terest of the scene entirely 
occupied our minds. We were 
set just out of the wind, and 
but just above the fog; we 
could listen to the voice of the 
one as to music on the stage; 
we could plunge our eyes down 

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into the other, as into some 
flowing stream from over the 
parapet of a bridge; thus we 
looked on upon a strange, im- 
petuous, silent, shifting exhibi- 
tion of the powers of nature, 
and saw the familiar landscape 
changing from moment to mo- 
ment like figures in a dream. 
The imagination loves to trifle 
with what is not. Had this 
been indeed the deluge, I should 
have felt more strongly, but the 
emotion would have been simi- 
lar in kind. I played with the 
idea, as the child flees in de- 

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lighted terror from the creations 
of his fancy. The look of the 
thing helped me. And when 
at last I began to flee up the 
mountain, it was indeed partly 
to escape from the raw air that 
kept me coughing, but it was 
also part in play. 
As I ascended the mountainside, 
I came once more to overlook 
the upper surface of the fog; 
but it wore a different appear- 
ance from what I had beheld 
at daybreak. For, first, the sun 
now fell on it from high over- 
head, and its surface shone and 



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° THE SEA FOGS " 

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undulated like a great nor'land 
moor country, sheeted with 
untrodden morning snow. And, 
next, the new level must have 
been a thousand or fifteen hun- 
dred feet higher than the old, 
so that only five or six points 
of all the broken country be- 
low me still stood out. Napa 
Valley was now one with So- 
noma on the west. On the 
hither side, only a thin scattered 
fringe of bluffs was unsub- 
merged ; and through all the 
gaps the fog was pouring over, 
like an ocean, into the blue 

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clear sunny country on the 
east. There it was soon lost; 
for it fell instantly into the 
bottom of the valleys, follow- 
ing the watershed; and the 
hilltops in that quarter were 
still clear cut upon the eastern 
sky. 

Through the Toll House gap 
and over the near ridges on the 
other side, the deluge was im- 
mense. A spray of thin vapour 
was thrown high above it, ris- 
ing and falling, and blown into 
fantastic shapes. The speed of 
its course was like a mountain 
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torrent. Here and there a few 
treetops were discovered and 
then whelmed again; and for 
one second, the bough of a 
dead pine beckoned out of the 
spray like the arm of a drown- 
ing man. But still the imagi- 
nation was dissatisfied, still the 
ear waited for something more. 
Had this indeed been water ( as 
it seemed so, to the eye), with 
what a plunge of reverberating 
thunder would it have rolled 
upon its course, disembowel- 
ling mountains and deracinating 
pines! And yet water it was, 



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THE SEA FOGS 

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and sea-water at that — true 
Pacific billows, only somewhat 
rarefied, rolling in mid-air 
among the hilltops. 
I climbed still higher, among 
the red rattling gravel and dwarf 
underwood of Mount Saint 
Helena, until I could look right 
down upon Silverado, and ad- 
mire the favoured nook in 
which it lay. The sunny plain 
of fog was several hundred feet 
higher ; behind the protecting 
spur a gigantic accumulation 
of cottony vapour threatened, 
with every second, to blow over 
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and submerge our homestead; 
but the vortex setting past the 
Toll House was too strong; 
and there lay our little plat- 
form, in the arms of the deluge, 
but still enjoying its unbroken 
sunshine. About eleven, how- 
ever, thin spray came flying 
over the friendly buttress, and 
I began to think the fog had 
hunted out its Jonah after all. 
But it was the last effort. The 
wind veered while we were at 
dinner, and began to blow 
squally from the mountain 
summit; and by half-past one, 

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all that world of sea fogs was 
utterly routed and flying here 
and there into the south in 
little rags of cloud. And instead 
of a lone sea-beach, we found 
ourselves once more inhabiting 
a high mountainside, with the 
clear green country far below 
us, and the light smoke of 
Calistoga blowing in the air. 
This was the great Russian 
campaign for that season. Now 
and then, in the early morning, 
a little white lakelet of fog 
would be seen far down in Napa 
Valley; but the heights were 



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not again assailed, nor was the 
surrounding world again shut 
off from Silverado. 



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HERE ENDS N.9 ONE THE WESTERN 
CLASSICS BEING THE SEA FOGS BY 
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON WITH 
AN INTRODUCTION BY THOMAS 
RUTHERFORD BACON & A PHOTO- 
GRAVURE FRONTISPIECE AFTER A 
PAINTING BY ALBERTINE RANDALL 
WHEELAN OF THIS FIRST EDITION 
ONE THOUSAND COPIES HAVE BEEN 
ISSUED PRINTED UPON FABRIANO 
HANDMADE PAPER THE TYPOG- 
RAPHY DESIGNED BY J. H. NASH 
PUBLISHED BY PAUL ELDER AND 
COMPANY & DONE INTO A BOOK 
FOR THEM AT THE TOMOYE PRESS 
IN THE CITY OF NEW YORK MCMVII 



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